To whore, or not to whore?

While I very obviously have no shame about men and such, I tend to refrain from delving too much into the best parts of it: S.E.X. Perhaps I want you all to think I'm sweet and virginal. And perhaps I just want those moments to be sacred and not read by the masses. But truth be told, I am bored. And I need to get laid. Badly. I'm talking yelling, hollering, ass-slapping, going all night, nooky.

When I was younger... shit, who am I kidding? As recently as the end of times with The Wrecking Ball, I would sometimes find myself looking for validation with my cooter. Lately, not so much. In many ways, I feel like I enjoy sex more when it is monogamous and has meaning behind it. And as I get older, I find myself more sensitive to the idea of not being taken seriously because I drink beer with the boys. The last thing I need is to actually give the haters reason to think I'm just "one of those girls." Yet, It has been a good six months since anyone other than my OB/GYN has been anywhere near my bits. Currently, there are few things I would love more than to break this dry spell.
*Yes, I know. There was The Writer. Unfortunately, due to his insecurities and neurosis about his 135,678 unique and unheard of health problems (hypochondriac much?), and the uncanny ability for said issues to turn me off, we only did it a handful of times when we first started dating. And it was never very fulfilling. Yeah, that relationship was doomed.

But here's my dilemma. Even if I managed to allow myself a booty call just to clean the pipes, I don't exactly have ready access to any subjects. Sure, I have a handful of the aforementioned man-friends. But there is NO way I would subject myself to any extra curricular activities with any of them. They are actually my friends. Even the few that are single, I respect and frankly, think of them as family, thus have no desire to see their junk. And Phoenix? Hell, he'd be lucky to get friend-zoned at this point.

What about the option of getting shit faced and going home with a random? Unfortunately, I live and play in a small "everyone knows everyone's business" type of community. It most certainly has it's perks. Just not in the way of finding an easy, non-awkward, and discreet lay. If I were to execute the random bar hook up, I would have to venture to the Big City and bring my conquest home to Trinity and her gay roommate. They wouldn't mind one bit. Hell, they'd probably encourage it. But something about turning 30 leaves me unwilling to get on all fours on my BFF's couch.

So I guess that leaves me to do things the old fashioned (and more respectable) way. While draining my C batteries, I might have to actually find a guy who likes me and wants to date me. Between my love for my small and close-knit town, and my dedication to my career, my hopes of meeting someone "organically" seem to be dwindling. Sure, I have recently declared that I may not be ready to give the whole relationship thing a go right now. But that was before I got horny. Things suddenly seem a little more urgent. Perhaps a new haircut, new dress, and new match.com account?

Dear Universe

Dear Universe,

How about you go fuck yourself?

Thanks, 

C

If I were to say that my heart could not possibly be anymore broken, I think the Universe would take that as a challenge so I will refrain.  

Last Friday, I had a girls' date with Bodhi.  We met for happy hour beers at our usual spot, then proceeded downtown when, after searching for parking forever, we snagged some delicious sandwiches for dinner.  We then walked a few blocks to an intimate concert venue to see a great show.  The night could not be better. Turns out that we had some other friends in the crowd so before the first act got underway we went on a search mission.  Less than one minute into said mission, we run into the motherfucking Wrecking Ball.  FUCK. How, in a sea of beautiful and inebriated bearded men, do I only exchange words with the one I have been avoiding like the Black Death for over a year? You see, the Wrecking Ball is not just any demon.  He is Satan himself.  No one person or thing in this world can fuck with the wiring of my brain as that man can.  The heartache from our demise is still so raw and so fresh.  My gaping wound that after being gangrenous and infectious, was just starting to heal and resemble more of a battle scar, when he walked up and slashed it all open again.  After successfully not puking on him and finding the other members of our group, Bodhi and I took our spots in front of the stage and I tried to brush it off.  I am certain the old drunk hippie standing next to me, thought I was on Acid as the only thing I could do was stare at the pretty lights in the ceiling, hoping that by elevating my face, no tears would fall down my cheeks.

Though I had designated myself as our driver, I woke the next morning with an emotional hangover.  The kind where you have a headache simply from crying.  My phone rang next to my head as I tried to come to.  It was darling Robo trying to wake my pathetic ass up for our planned hike.  Before calling her back, I decided I should replay the previous night's events in my head and start some coffee.  I laid in bed just a little longer while I felt the way I did over a year ago "Just last night, he was here.  And now he's gone."  I felt like I would die. I found myself asking all the same questions over and over.  I eventually hobbled out of bed to start the kettle, while cursing the Universe for ever bringing that man into my life if I was just going to wake up alone anyway.

As I stumble into my living room, the Universe smacks me upside the head to remind me that I never wake up alone. There it was. Vomit. Shit. Lots of it. Once contained in the forty pound body of a dog. MY dog. My sweet, precious girl that has been with me for the entirety of my Twenties. Who, while I bitch and moan about being lonely, gently reminds me "But I'm here.  And I love you. Unconditionally.  And I will never, ever leave your side."  But the fact is, she will. Not by her own doing. No, she will not abandon me. Instead, I have to make the decision to not be selfish and let her leave this Earth in no more pain than she is currently in. I have to let her go. I have to let her know that I will be okay without her. That I am a better and stronger person because of her love. That her job here is done. 

This Friday, Sister and I will take my dog into her very last vet visit.  And we will leave without her. The outpouring of love and compassion from everyone who knows her and my love for her has been amazing. Even dogless, I know I am not alone.

Dear Universe, 

If you can be gentle after the tough week you have dealt me, that would be great.

I love you, 

C 

 

Going Fishing This Weekend

There is one demon I have failed to ever mention.  I'm not entirely sure I can count him as a demon, solely because we have never actually dated.  The Fisherman and I have known each other for about five years now.  Though some say "ideals" are the root of misery when it comes to love, if I were allowed an ideal partner, The Fisherman would come awfully close.  He is the mountain girl's version of a romance novel hero.   He has lived in the wilderness as a fishing guide and is about as outdoorsy and manly as they come.  Growing up, my Dad always told me real men carry a knife in their pocket.  The Fisherman always has knife in a his pocket.

As I said, we have never seriously dated.  If only because we live in different states.  Somehow, we almost always seem to be magnetically drawn to one another when we sense the other might be single.  We can go six months to a year without seeing one another, only keeping friendly contact.  Then BOOM - stars align.  We both conveniently end up unattached at the same time and the flood gates open.  Each time, it's the same story.  We see each other as much as we can, travel between locations, express over and over how if we lived near each other, things would be perfect.  We eventually drift apart, one or both gets involved with a more local romance and we remain "friends" until that sixth sense kicks in again.

So there I was, last weekend.  Celebrating a hike with some friends over a pitcher of microbrew in the afternoon sun, loving my single and free life, when my text alert buzzes.  Before I even checked my phone, I already knew who it was.  I knew the dam had been released.  Today - just hours ago - The Fisherman informed me he is checking out of work early to make the few hour drive to visit me for the weekend.  Hell yeah!  But.  Wait.  Just WHAT THE FUCK do I think I'm doing?

I don't want the distraction of a man right now.  I sure as hell don't want a relationship.  I just freed myself from being shackled.  I have been restless for too long.  Since ending things with The Writer, I couldn't be happier about my singledom.  In fact, I have hiked over 55 miles in the last 2 weeks of freedom.  That is not a typo.  Fifty-Five fucking MILES.  I have been able to keep my home in order, actually focus at work, take care of my dog, see my family, drink beers with my friends while listening to MY choice in music.  Life has been very good.  The last thing I want is anyone or anything getting in my damn way.  Yet I know, I always enjoy every minute I spend with The Fisherman.  And you know why?  Because I can do all those things with him.  We are so similar in our interests and passions that it is just easy.  Very easy.  Sure, we'll probably sober up from our playing house drunk when he leaves on Sunday.  And I will likely shed a tear as he loads his dog into the back of his Subaru to drive away.  I will feel a pang, knowing it seems unfair we can't be together.  But it's okay.  I find justification in knowing that Sunday will come.  And I will still be single.  And I will not have had to sacrifice a single part of my weekend to spend it with him. 

Love and Obsession. Or Something Else?

I have been a bad blogger the last couple months.  Truth is, I haven't had much to write.  As I stated in my last post, things with The Writer have been difficult lately.  Because of that, my life has not been as exciting as one would hope.  And... we are through.  At risk of sounding like a callus bitch, I'm not one bit sad to see him go.  That's not because The Writer is a bad person or he screwed me over in some grandiose way. But more that I regret spending the first three months of my last year in my Twenties, trying to make it work. I feel that my time with him was wasted time.  All of that energy and time I invested could have proved to be more worthwhile put into other places.  The concerts, parties, hiking trips and activities I missed out on with my friends.  The poker nights at Sister's that I didn't go to.  The nights I could have been experiencing LIFE and have something to write about in this blog.  All the nights my poor ailing dog spent alone because The Writer refused to come to my apartment.  I shudder.  Why? 

I can say that for me, it was over when I realized The Writer wasn't bringing much of anything into my life.  I staunchly believe the best part of a relationship is immersing yourself in one another's passions (while keeping individuality, of course.)  It started out that way.  I brought him to concerts of bands he'd never heard of and introduced him to the creativity of vegetarian cooking.  He brought me along to industry events with his writing and let me be the first to read some of his drafts.  Eventually though, he decided he didn't like doing "my things" and also started making less of an effort to share his with me.  Our relationship literally came down to me putting off my desires and responsibilities to watch him work.  A little too late, I came to the conclusion that he added little more than the physical presence of another human being.

It has been a good while since I have felt connected or bonded to him.  I picked up on this right away.  My first thought about this was "Uh-oh."  I thought for sure, he had just worn out his welcome and my interest was waning.  Then, through my misguided attempts of amateur self-therapy, I got to thinking that maybe that's what healthy love is supposed to feel like.  Maybe the fact that he wasn't on my mind all day, every day was actually a good thing.  Sitting around obsessing and willing the phone to ring certainly isn't healthy.  So when I'm relieved to not hear the phone ringing, that's healthy right?

I now know these feeling that I had were a sense of growing up and maturing. For the very first time in my life, love is not a priority.  I simply do not have the time or the will to deal with anything or anyone getting in the way of meeting my goals.  I feel smart and proud of myself for finally getting what everyone has fucking tried to tell me all along.  So in every sense of the word, I am relieved.  I cannot even express the amount of weight that I feel has been lifted off me.  Reading back on all of my previous, whining posts, I see that giving so much of myself in the last Twenty Nice years, hasn't gotten me very far.  I am looking forward to being selfish for a while. I hope that one day, a handsome and bearded gentleman who is passionate about his passions and supportive of mine, will come my way.  Until then, I am a bitch with a mission and need a clear path, free of obstacles.  Thankfully, The Writer is one demon I don't need an exorcism to be free from.

The First Exorcism

Photo courtesy Veritas Pictures

Today was fairly uneventful.  So I figured it would be a good point to start the exorcism of demons (or exes as some like the call them).  In chronological order, here is the condensed version of the significant men of my 20's.

The Mack
Oh, The Mack.  My first real adult relationship.  The first time "Love" meant something beyond scribbling his name on my paper-bag covered Algebra book.  The Mack and I met during our early twenties, dated like normal grown ups and broke up for normal, grown up reasons. The Mack was everything I thought I wanted in a partner: good looking, charming, athletic, funny, compassionate and a good lover. Unfortunately for me and the future men I would meet, he set my first bar.  Which is why years after our breakup, I left Banjo for him.  Turns out What If? is overrated.  The Mack may have started me down the Yellow Brick Road of emotionally unavailable yet beautifully enticing men.  But he was and is a great guy and we are on good terms to this day.

Patriot
As benign as The Mack was in retrospect, it demolished my spirit when we broke up the first time.  So much that I quickly drank myself into oblivion with my best "guy friend".  Patriot began as nothing more than a shoulder to cry on and buddy to take shots with.  As it all too often happens with vulnerable and naive (and skunk drunk) girls, it eventually turned into a short and toxic tryst. The full story of Patriot is quite depressing and I am just too contented right now to get into it.  A Patriot dedicated post will come sooner than later.

Banjo
Poor Banjo.  He was my first Crazy. An alcoholic musician, he was fun as hell in the beginning.  Once the PBR Can Pyramid in his living room took over the recliner, view of the TV and pathway to the bathroom, I got bored.  We only dated a couple of months before my interest quickly lost steam.   Sadly, Banjo fell HARD for me.  When I returned from a few weeks out of the country to end things... let's just say he didn't adjust well.  He spent the next 2-3 years harassing and occasionally stalking me.  Eventually, via email I told him "Go Fuck Yourself or I'm getting a restraining order."  I hear he now has a nice girlfriend. 

Gator
Like The Mack, Gator was pretty benign.  He was and is a nice guy with whom I stay in touch.  However, I did not get out unscathed.  For just a little under a year, we spent nearly every other day with each other.  Befriended one another's social circle.  He got to know my family.  All that relationship-y stuff, right?  Well at End-Time, I was surprised to hear he never thought it was actually a relationship.  Hmmm.  Fast forward a few years and I have learned to love the mantra "It ain't exclusive until he says it is, Honey."  Little bit of fuckery but I got over it.

The Wrecking Ball
He entered my life with such intensity and force that when he left it, I was standing in a pile of rubble.  He gets his own post.  Another day.

Princess
Really, Princess doesn't entirely belong on this list as he was NOT a significant man in my life.  We only dated a brief period of time but the complete fuckery and hilarity of his story is just too good to omit.  To be kind, Princess is a steaming pile of his own vain, rose-smelling shit.  Our courtship was my first attempt at anything beyond booty-call-status since The Wrecking Ball.  After about 3 months of regular dating and a couple of "what are we" talks, I discover he had been exploring Polyamory.  What's more, I was enlightened by finding evidence rather than him telling me like a man.  The responsible adult would have considered this pertinent information to a budding relationship and would have disclosed it in the beginning.  I am not to judge the lifestyle choices of others, but polyamory is not my bag. 
Here is how our last conversation went:
P: Are you okay?  Why did you leave?  Are you mad at the book?
C: No, I am not mad at the book. I am mad at your explanation for it.  I feel gross and need to soak my vagina in bleach.
P: Don't feel that way.  There hasn't been anyone else since I met you.
C: Yet, you mean? How long would that have last?
P: I would have told you before I involved anyone else.  I still want you to be my Main Girlfriend.
C: Gross.  Listen, I have already been on the fence as to whether or not our thing is working for me.  This just sealed the deal for me.
P: Well, what if we date and just aren't intimate?
C: No.
P: Well can we be friends?
C: No.
P: This is why I didn't want to tell you.  I was afraid it would scare you away and you would want nothing to do with me.
C: You were right.
Good luck to Princess with his Harem.